Bits and Pieces
by Lady Jekyll
Summary: [Fargo postfilm] Grimsrud’s past just won’t leave him alone. The skeletons in his closet make damn sure of it. Ch. 5 thru 6 are up. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 1: Aftermath

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Summery[_Fargo_; post-film Grimsrud's past just won't leave him alone. The skeletons in his closet make damn sure of it.

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A/n: I'm pleased to present my first _Fargo_ story! The idea for this was just one of those 'Waaaaaaait a minute!' moments I get while going on the imdb message boards. Go figure. I edited this heavily. I've got family reading this, all right?! They don't like language.

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_Because I could not stop for Death_

_He kindly stopped for me_

_The Carriage held but just Ourselves,_

_And Immortality… Emily Dickinson_

* * *

Grear Grimsrud stared hard at the blank, whitewashed walls of his cell. He'd only been here a month, and he was already forced to rely on sheer force of will to keep from killing himself. _It's the silence you're not used to, that's all it is,_ he told himself as he walked to the sink. With Carl dead, the silence was suffocating. Carl Showalter was a fast-talking, weaselish little man. And, God Almighty, did he _talk_. Grimsrud couldn't even count the times he wanted to jab a lit Marlboro into Showalter's eye. He was sure that _that_ would shut him up. But, what the hell? An axe and a wood chipper worked perfectly well too.

"Good riddance," Grimsrud muttered, leaning into the sink to splash water on his face.

"To what?" asked a voice. The Swedish man looked up and saw the blood-drenched figure of Carl Showalter standing behind him.

"What the hell?" he cried, whipping around. There was nothing there. Grimsrud chuckled weakly. He was going mad, that was it. It was the only reasonable explanation he could think of. Completely flipping nuts! It was almost laughable.

"You said, 'Good riddance', I'm only wonderin', you know, what you should be so damn happy about," said Showalter, sitting down on the floor. "I mean," he paused and laughed his weaselly little laugh, "look at you."

Grear stared in absolute mystification as Carl pulled a needle and thread out his pocket and began to stitch his left forearm to his elbow. Showalter acted as though it was the most normal thing in the world. The better he looked at his former partner-in-crime, the more Grimsrud knew that Carl was definitely no longer part of the land of the living. He looked more like a walking mosaic than a man. His face had been reassembled with crude stitching in black thread. A good chunk of the right side of his jaw was missing from where he'd been shot in the face. Carl laughed at the dumbfounded look on Grimsrud's face.

"What's with you? At least I'm somebody you can talk to," he said, pulling the thread up with his teeth. His arm now completely attached, he began working on his right leg.

"You're not real. You don't exist, not anymore—_I killed you!_" Grimsrud said. Showalter's blue eyes gleamed. His weaselly laugh turned rather foreboding.

"Yes, I know," he said calmly. "That's why I'm here."


	2. Chapter 2

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 2: Vos Mos Teneo Haud Sileo

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A/n: Chapter title is Latin for "you will know no rest". I just realized that this is the second story that I've written where Buscemi's turned into an otherworldly ghost/demon thing. Why do I keep killing off my men?! I've killed John, Tony and Steve in _The Life of the Mind_. Steve's already dead here (Thank you Joel and Ethan! I can't blame myself for this one!) God prohibit the day I marry… (gets odd stares from readers and proceeds to dance in glee.) There's a lot of 'flipping' here…

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"You mean to tell me," said Grimsrud slowly, "that you've come back?" He shook his head, not wanting to believe what he was seeing. Grear opened his eyes and spoke again. "What for? To avenge your death?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," Carl replied, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. When he inhaled, the smoke oozed out of the stitches that made up most of his face. The fact that he was covered from head to foot in blood and thick, crude black stitches didn't help much. He looked like a ghoulish scarecrow or rag doll. Showalter sighed, audibly cracking his jaw (or what was left of it). Carl now fought to maintain the iron mantle of control over himself to prevent the mortal man's death. Grimsrud didn't like the look in the ghost's eyes. It was the look of a man who knew how easy it was to become his own lynch mob.

"I am FLIPPING SICK of having to deal with your flipping—!" Carl swallowed, not even able to convey what he had felt when he died. "You did nothing," he said in a deadly earnest voice. "You wouldn't help me with the trooper, you go and cap two civilians for God's sake! Flipping mute! I go and get flipping shot by some flipping broad's father trying to get the money, and what do _you_ do? Eat TV dinners and watch Johnny-flipping-Carson!"

Grimsrud gave the ghost a sardonic smirk.

"You done?" he asked. Carl made an angry scoffing noise.

"Oh, I am _far_ from done, Grimsrud. I won't kill you, not yet. I will make you feel all the physical pain and I anger that I did when I died. Unfortunately for you, it will be three times as bad. My death could have been kinder, but I'll make damn sure that yours is ten times as worse!" Showalter leaned against the wall and slowly slid down. Blood stained the wall, forming a trail of sorts above the blood-soaked ghost. "Your grave might one day read 'rest in peace', but I swear to you on my _own_ grave that you will know no rest, be you dead or alive!"

Grimsrud suddenly felt the temperature the room drop. His breath was visible and he saw that Carl's blue eyes were as cold as the temperature in the room.

"You think I'm flipping _kidding_?" Showalter breathed. "Well?"

The mortal man locked eyes with the ghost, shivering. He knew that Carl meant what he said. Even in death, he was a man of his word.

"D—damn you!" shivered Grimsrud. "Damn you to hell!"

Carl chuckled grimly.

"Look at me, man! I'm already thoroughly damned, so you may save your breath."


	3. Chapter 3

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 3: The One He Left Behind

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A/n: I firmly believe that behind all the hooker banging, trash talking, bastardish behavior, Carl might have been a good guy. I'm not trying to make him into a tragic hero, or anything, but I think he wasn't a complete jackass. There's a sliver lining in him somewhere, I'm sure of it. Anna is my creation.

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"Oi, Grimsrud!" said the warden, pounding a thick fist of his cell door. Grear and Carl looked up. "Ya gotta visitor!"

"Visitor?" muttered Grimsrud. He walked up to the cell door. "Who is it?"

"The wife of the guy ya shoved down the wood chipper," the warden replied. The Swedish man turned back to Carl, who looked utterly dumbstruck. "You had a _wife_?"

"_Anna…"_ Carl whispered. He rose to his feet and walked through the door, leaving bloody footprints behind. Grear shifted his weight from foot to foot as the warden opened the door.

"Turn around, Grimsrud," the warden ordered. Grimsrud obeyed, wincing as handcuffs were clinched tightly around his wrists. "Come on." The warden led him down the hall and through a set of double doors leading to the visitors' area. Grimsrud was handcuffed to a chair. He flung his head back in order to get his stringy blond hair out of his eyes. A guard walked into the visitor's section, pointing a dark-haired woman over to the chair in front of Grimsrud. The woman sat down, looking as though she wanted to reach through the thick glass plate separating them and strangle him.

"So," she said in a coldly pained voice. She didn't say anything more. Grimsrud watched her silently for a moment. Anna Showalter was beautiful, and yet she didn't seem aware of it. Grimsrud could see why Carl would have fallen for her.

"Why are you here?" the prisoner asked. Anna's dark eyes latched onto his as she spoke.

"I wanted to look into the eyes of the man who killed my husband," she said.

Grimsrud felt a sudden wave of cold hit him. He looked over to his side and saw the bloody ghost of Carl Showalter standing next to him.

"Tell her I'm here," he said.

"Why? To make her think I'm flipping nuts?" Grimsrud asked out of the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat and turned back to Anna. "Your husband was a jackass of the worst kind, you know. He deserved what he got."

"From the crimes you committed, you deserved to die a lot more then Carl did," rebuked Anna in a voice of forced calm. "You killed for the hell of it, Carl killed because he had to."

"He was married, and yet he banged any woman he came across!" Grimsrud said. "I wouldn't exactly call him a saint!"

"I'm not calling him a saint, I'm just saying that he was a good man!"

Grimsrud threw his head back and laughed. He pointed at the diamond ring that was visible on Anna's left hand.

"That ring meant nothing to him, trust me," he said. Anna broke down into sobs, pulling off the wedding ring of her finger and throwing across the room. Carl walked through the glass plating and made to comfort his widowed wife, even though he knew she couldn't see or hear him.

"Anna…I'm sorry, I was a total bastard, I know," he said. "I realize now how much I hurt you and I'm in Hell because of it. Please forgive me," he said. Anna wiped her eyes and sighed.

"Carl…God, I wish you were here," she whispered.

"I am!" said Showalter, waving a hand in front of her face. "I am here, Anna! Grear, tell her! Tell her, please!" Grimsrud said nothing; he just stared at the floor. Carl sighed. He walked through Anna, hoping she could feel his presence. Anna shivered and pulled her jacket tightly around her shoulders. Grimsrud could see the blood covering Showalter's wife, even though he knew that it was invisible to everyone else.

"Time's up, Mrs. Showalter," said a guard, putting a hand on Anna's shoulder. Anna nodded and rose to her feet. She turned back and spoke to Grimsrud once more.

"You will never know the pain of having to tell my son that his father is never coming home," she said bitterly. "I hope you rot in Hell."

* * *

Back in his cell, Grimsrud sat on his bed. Carl sat on the floor, his head resting on his knees.

"You never said anything about having a kid," the mortal man said. "Anna is gorgeous, how could you prefer streetwalkers to her?"

"She knew I was physically incapable of fidelity. I only married her because she got pregnant, all right?" Carl snapped. "It was great at first, but then I got tired of her. Our son, Jonathan…he'd be two by now. Johnny was the only reason I didn't divorce her." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping through various false IDs until he found what he was looking for. Showalter tossed the wallet to Grimsrud, who caught it. Inside the wallet was a photograph of a dark-haired toddler who was just beginning to get the weaselish features of his father.

"He looks like you," Grimsrud said.

"Last time I saw him, he had the angelic temperament of his mother, thank God," said Carl, taking his wallet back and placing it in his pocket. "Anna is a good woman. I may have been repeatedly unfaithful to her, but she always remained true to me." He sighed deeply. "Don't think I'm getting friendly with you, Grear. When I get back, all benevolence will be deader than me."

"Where are you going?" Grimsrud asked, happy that his ghostly cohort was leaving. Showalter snuck a quick peek at the photo of his son again as he spoke.

"Home."


	4. Chapter 4

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 4: Forgiveness for a Dead Man

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A/n: We're changing scenes here; we're no longer at the prison. I repeat myself when I say I believe that Carl's got a sliver lining and we get to see more of that here. (Bangs head against computer monitor) I know Carl's out of character. And Grimsrud talks too much, I _know_! I've gotten several complaints on it, but just sit back. Carl returns to his regular bastard self later on (hugs bastardly Carl).

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Carl Showalter sighed heavily as he stood in the driveway of his house in Fargo, North Dakota. The two-story house was covered in snow and a majority of the Christmas decorations had been taken down. A kiddy pool in the front yard had frozen over, encasing several bath toys in solid ice. Though he'd rarely ever stayed here, Carl felt a sense of security. Perhaps that was what Heaven felt like—the feeling of security and contentment one could only feel at home. He'd never know. Showalter walked through the front door, knowing that his presence went unnoticed. It was late and both Anna and little Jonathan were most likely asleep. Carl walked down the hall and turned into the doorway to the left—Jonathan's room.

The black-haired boy lay in bed, clutching a teddy bear as he slept. Carl smiled lightly at his son.

"Hey, Johnny," he whispered. "You remember me?"

Jonathan sighed in his sleep.

"Daddy," he muttered, clutching the bear all the more closer to him. Carl was surprised, could the boy hear him when he was asleep?

"Yeah, it's Daddy," he said. "I've missed you, son."

"Mommy sad," mumbled Jonathan, not waking up. "Daddy stay?"

Carl bit his lower lip, trying hard not to emote. Even dead, he was still afraid of emotion.

"No, I can't. I'd give anything to stay, but I can't. I'm sorry," he said, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair. His hand went through Jonathan, who shivered visibly but did not wake. Carl sighed and began to walk to the doorway. When he got there he turned back. "Have good dreams, Johnny. I'll be gone when you wake up."

Walking out of Jonathan's room, Carl then went up stairs to the Anna's room. He found Anna lying in bed, the TV set playing with the sound turned off. It was their wedding video.

"A—Anna," said Carl, his voice breaking as he spoke. "I'm sorry—God, I am _so _sorry!"

"Carl?" Anna muttered in her sleep. Showalter swallowed and spoke.

"Yeah," Carl said. "I realize now how badly I treated you. Death really opened my eyes. How could you put up with me? I showed little kindness to you and had nothing but indifference for our son! I slept around like it was going out of fashion and you never even _looked_ at another man! How could you be so strong to put up with all that?"

"I love you," Anna replied, pulling the covers over her shoulders without waking. Carl's heavily sutured face became twisted in grief. He was no longer able to hold back emotion now.

"Don't say that! I never deserved to hear those words, not from you!" he said. He sighed miserably and lay on the bed next to his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist and praying she'd know he was there. "There's a suitcase full of money buried in the outskirts of Brainerd. I never earned a dime of it, but I want you to take it. Take the money, take Jonathan and get outta here. Get outta Fargo, you deserve better than this. Find someone who'll love you better than I did." He leaned forward and lightly kissed his wife's cheek. Anna shivered, pulling the covers tightly around her body.

"Carl," she muttered sleepily, "close the window, it's cold."

Carl rose and ran a hand through his blood-soaked hair. He looked back at his wife.

"Anna, I—"

_(Love you)_

He didn't have the heart to say it. It didn't sound right coming from _him_. What had he ever done to deserve hearing those words from her? Carl looked at the television, watching the wedding video play across the screen. He was younger, alive and already eyeing the bridesmaids. Showalter felt disgusted with himself as he watched the video.

_You flipping son of a bitch,_ he thought angrily to himself. _You've got an angel in your arms and you're eyeing anyone __**but**__ her! Flipping son of a bitch!_ Carl turned away, furious with himself as he walked out of the room and through the front door. He walked down the street a little before throwing his head back and letting out a howl. It was stronger than the yell he'd cried when he'd been shot in the face. This was different.

It was the grief of the damned.


	5. Chapter 5

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 5: Tantalize

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A/n: Shout-out to Sunshine on the imdb message boards for wanting to see Jerry in here. I tweaked the storyline a bit, switched the fate of a couple characters around.

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As Grear Grimsrud slept, he was unaware of the sudden drop in temperature. He was also unaware of the angry-as-hell entity that had entered the room. Carl was back. Grimsrud yawned, muttering, "Pancakes," under his breath as he slept.

"Yeah, next time you get some, I hope you choke on them," Carl grumbled. He began walking back and forth through Grimsrud to wake him up. "Get up! I said _get up!"_

"What the—?" the criminal said, waking up. "Oh, you're back."

Carl cracked his jaw audibly.

"Damn right!" he snarled. The door to the cell opened and would have squashed him, had he been solid. He went through the door and looked suddenly taken aback as a guard dragged a man into the room.

"I'm innocent, please, ya gotta believe me here!" the man babbled as the guard left the room. Both Carl and Grimsrud knew that whiney voice. It was Jerry Lundegaard, the car salesmen that had gotten them into this mess.

"_You!"_ muttered Grimsrud, looking ready to kill. Carl put up a hand saying, "No, he's _mine_!"

Showalter took possession of Lundegaard, who screamed as the ghost invaded his soul.

"36 six hours of hell!" Carl growled. "All at once, just for you!"

Jerry screamed again, his features twisting into scarred vestiges that resembled Showalter's own. He fell to the floor, heaving in pain. The car salesman lay still for a moment, before rising to his feet.

"That's better," said Carl, brushing several dust bunnies off of Jerry's prison uniform. "Feels odd, being alive again." In Grimsrud's mind, what was odd was Showalter's voice coming out of Lundegaard's mouth.

"Are you going to be staying like that long?"

"I'll get rid of him when I don't need him anymore," Carl answered.

"When will that be?" Grimsrud asked.

"When I see you in hell."

"Trouble at home?" the Swedish man inquired unfeelingly.

"Shut up," Carl snarled. Grimsrud smiled maliciously.

"Anna didn't know you were there, did she?" he asked. "And what about that weaselish little brat of yours? Did he not recognize his poppa?"

"I said shut UP!" Showalter cried, shoving Grimsrud from him with an inhuman strength. "Tell me why I shouldn't rip out your spine and hang you from it!" he went on, hellish rage burning in his eyes. "And it better be a _damn good reason!"_

"You wouldn't kill me," Grear replied, still smiling. "You're not strong enough, and you know it, don't you?" Carl narrowed his eyes, his hand clenching and unclenching into fists as if it were the heartbeat he no longer possessed.

"No!" he snarled, backing away and clawing at his hair. "I won't put up with anymore of your Hannibal Lecter psycho-crap! I'm gonna to kill you and I'm gonna flippin' enjoy it!"

"No," repeated Grimsrud in that slow, patient tone. "You were the brains, I am the muscle, that how thing're run. The tables haven't turned; you are still the weak, sniveling little weasel you've always been! Even in death, you haven't changed."

"SHUT UP!" Carl screamed, doubling over with his hands over his ears. _"SHUT—UP!" _Showalter winced, clutching at Lundegaard's jaw. Carl's wounds were becoming apparent on the physical body of his possession victim. Blood gushed out of a wound to the jaw and cuts and bruises were starting to form on the twisted features of his face. Lundegaard fell to the floor, dead. Carl Showalter stood beside him, alive once again. Jerry had been nothing but a shell, a cocoon, as the dead man had fed off his life force and soul in order to regain the body he had lost. This caused Grimsrud to feel fear, an emotion that, like all feelings, he rarely ever experienced.

"Wuh—how did—?"

Carl cracked his jaw audibly.

"If it's one thing I've learned in my brief tenure in Hell, it's this: physical pain is nothing. Nothing compared to the absolute torment of having no one but yourself, while images of all you've ever known and loved flash through your mind. You'd give anything to reach them, but you can't! _That_ is real pain! Wanting what you cannot have for all eternity! I'd rather go though that wood chipper again and again than see my son grow up without a father and my wife to be alone! I want you to know the same pain I have."

"You can't do that," said Grimsrud quietly, his fear leaving him quickly. "I can't feel."


	6. Chapter 6

Bits and Pieces

Ch. 6: Last Goodbyes

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A/n: Last chapter here! Yay! I'm feeling a little playful at the moment. Sunshine, you will be pleased (wink, wink).

* * *

"You can't feel—ha!" said Carl coldly. "I highly doubt that. I'm sure you can feel _this_!" He plunged his hand into Grimsrud's chest and pulled out his heart. The Swedish man had a look of puzzlement on his face as his slumped to the ground. Carl, still possessing inhuman strength, kicked down the door and ran out of the room. Footsteps alerted him that not only was he being followed, but that it was also daytime. He could hear the clicking of high-heeled shoes coming from somewhere ahead of him.

Showalter turned left, grabbing a prison jumpsuit as he ran, as he was wearing nothing. He tugged on the orange uniform and opened a set of doors. A woman and a child were standing in the hall, waiting for someone. The child tilted his head, like a puppy would and looked at Carl for a moment. Carl looked at the child and gasped.

_Jonathan…_

"Daddy!" Jonathan cried, letting go of Anna Showalter's hand and running over to his estranged father.

"Johnny, no!" Anna shouted. Her hands flew to her mouth when she saw that it was indeed her Carl. "Cuh—Carl? Oh m—my God, how—?"

"I can't stay long," Carl whispered, looking up from where he knelt beside his son. "Anna, I know that I've been a real bastard in the past, and I hope you can forgive me."

"I've always forgiven you, Carl, you never knew it," replied Anna. Carl smiled and spoke again.

"I love you so much," he said as guards swarmed around them, pushing Anna and Johnny away from him.

"Don't move!" a guard shouted. "Move and you're dead!"

Carl's smile widened a little.

"I'm already dead," he said, knowing that he go freely to Hell now. "And I'm already moving." He shoved passed the guards and sprinted for the stairs. The guards drew their guns and aimed.

"NO!" Anna shouted, shielding Jonathan from the sight.

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

Shots rang out and Carl Showalter lay on the floor, riddled with bullets and dead once again. But the odd thing was that he was smiling.


End file.
